The Immortal's Beloved
by a-young-maid's-wits
Summary: Celes Chere discovers that a "side effect" of her Esper infused creation is the inability to stay dead.
1. Prologue A

**NOTES:** this fiction is inspired by some of the characters from the show "Torchwood". If you have watched  
the show you will probably recognize the parallels.  
**DISCLAIMER: **none of the characters in this fiction belong to me, nor do I make any profit from this fiction

He slipped into the house under the cover of a starless night. Inside he came upon an old man, dozing in a chair by the fireplace. The sleeping figure stirred awake at the sound of footsteps on the worn wooden floorboards. Eyes blinked slowly open and then regarded the young man in front of them, recognition coming slower now that his youth was only a memory. After several heartbeats, the elder's lips curled into a small grin and he held out his hand, palm cupped and facing upwards.

Locke dropped the velvet pouch into the waiting hand, the tell tale _clinks _of coins sounding absurdly loud in the quiet house. The old man had the decency not to count out the contents of the purse (_yet_) and instead pocketed it inside his tunic before he slowly rose to his feet. He grabbed a lit candle from the mantle and headed towards a side room, Locke following anxiously on his heels. A hidden switch in the wall of the near empty room triggered a hatch in the floor to unlock. As the old man pulled the hatch open, a set of descending stairs were revealed. He walked down halfway with careful steps, then motioned for Locke to follow.

The stairs led down into a nearly pitch room. Locke's eyes strained in the blackness before it was chased away as the old man went around the room, lighting candles by memory, row upon row that sat on shelves and tables. In the candle glow, a prone figure was revealed, motionless upon a stark white bed. The increasing light showed a young woman with skin almost as blanched as the sheets, made to look all the more paler by the dark blue-black curls that framed her face. Transparent tubes, attached to nameless machines (_both horrible and blessed sights at the same time_), were in turn attached onto, and _into_, her fair flesh, and wound their way into her nose and mouth, and in other, more personal, places (_he could not bear to think on it_). The tubes pushed in air and medicines and sustenance; they took away the waste and expelled breaths. Her chest rose and fell in conjunction with the squeeze of a bellow, a soft hiss accompanying each exhalation, the movement and sounds so unnatural it caused something like terror to rise within Locke's chest.

"Rachel…" her name fell in a desperate whisper from his lips as he reached out to touch her too cold skin. He didn't know if she could hear him, if the words he spoke to her could reach the place where her soul was sleeping. Despite this, he still poured promises in her ear, promises filled with honeyed words like '_love_' and '_hope_' and '_soon_'.

"She's not in any pain," the old man assured him, tapping a glass container that held a specially mixed potion. Locke regarded him carefully, trying to gauge if the man was merely trying to humor him. However, he _had_ to have trust in this man, this man who was once a scientist for the Empire, who had seen and participated in the early research on _Magic_ and the legendary _Espers_. The machines that now kept Rachel anchored in this world had been smuggled from the Empire's very own labs. The price for them, and by extension the price for the old man's expertise (and _silence_), was quite steep.

Though Locke would always vehemently rail against anyone who referred to him as a thief (he declared he was a '_treasure hunter_'), the truth was that, for the most part, he was. The old man's fees were paid for with coins and jewelry, gems and trinkets, whatever valuable things Locke could secret away from the unsuspecting gentry and high end merchant shops. He had also on occasion, with great shame and sorrow, stolen from the treasury of his dear friend Edgar. There was no way to have asked the King of Figaro for assistance without putting him and his subjects in mortal danger. If the Empire ever found out about Rachel, about the stolen technology and tomes of magical research, they would kill each and every person involved (_or worse_). So while his heart broke a little more each time he deceived his friend, at least Edgar would be free from knowledge that could damn him.

All that kept Locke going was the belief that there was _something somewhere _that could reunite Rachel's soul and body and wake her from this living death. He had read through the texts the old man had smuggled out from the Empire, finding in them the source of his hope, a thing that was called _Phoenix_. Life out of death was its boon, and if it was in this world, if Locke could just find it, then all the promises he had made to Rachel, those made to her silent form, and those made in better times before, could finally be fulfilled.

Locke pressed a gentle kiss to her cheek before adding another rose among the ones present about the sides and ends of the bed. If she were to wake (_please_) when he was not there, he wanted her to know that he had been there and would return again (_it was a sort of custom in Kohlingen, to leave a flower before one went traveling, as a symbol of a promise to return_). Roses had always been her favorite.

As he turned to leave, Locke pictured her with red roses, nested in her dark hair and filling her arms as a wedding bouquet. She would smile at him, her lips as full and red as the roses, before leaning forward into his arms to kiss him, and she would be _warm_ and _soft_ and _alive_.

For that, he would do anything.


	2. Prologue B

The child let out a shrill cry as the tubing was slipped out from her mouth. Her eyes, wide from shock, took in her surroundings for the first time: a large, dark room filled with seemingly infinite metal constructs that had flashing lights and parts that moved as if alive. Next to her was the glass chamber that had been her '_home_' for the past two years, where she had floated in liquid and was kept alive with tubes, like some warped parody of a child in the womb. She had had no awareness beyond that chamber until now; all she could remember was darkness and floating and just _being_. Above all she remembered the darkness, like a sleep without dreaming, save for the times she felt pain. It would strike her without warning, _white hot _and _sharp_, as the essence of the _Magicite _was fused into her body.

"Easy now, Celes, let me look at you." She was in the arms of an older man who was dressed all in yellow. It made him almost glow in the darkness of the laboratory.

"You are all right, child." He spoke softly to soothe her, dried her with a warm towel while surreptitiously examining her. Celes began to calm as he wrapped another towel around her and picked her up into his arms. The man had a pleasant face, round and with seemingly permanently flushed cheeks, and dark hair that was starting to be tinged by grey.

"Welcome to the world, Celes," he said with a smile, "I'm your grandfather, Cid."

Celes was presented to the Emperor later that day, after a more thorough examination, a clothes fitting and some cursory lessons in walking and speech. The _Magicite _had heightened her ability to learn and in just a few short hours she was operating at the same level as any child her age (_or perhaps even better_). The Emperor and another man (_whom Celes did not trust, there was something odd showing in his eyes_) looked over her with great interest as Cid rambled on to them, his nervousness evident.

"As you can see, little Celes Chere here-yes, I named her myself-seems to be exhibiting no negative side effects from the Magicite infusion, as was suspected with previous attempts (_at this, the man with the odd look in his eyes glared at Cid while his hands balled into fists at his side_), oh my apologies Sir Kefka, I-I didn't mean you, just that it appears that our projections are right on track, she should be able to manifest her powers in a year or so, then we can train her to use them, along with formal military training, general education…"

The Emperor merely nodded, but he did bend down and smiled at Celes. It wasn't a smile meant to make one feel loved or even safe, but instead made one feel like the proverbial fish on a hook. Kefka (_she deduced that it was his name) _smiled at her as well, lips pressed thin and curling up sharply at the ends. When she dared to look at his eyes again, she could practically see the emotions they contained-anger, jealousy, perhaps even sadness (_?_).

"Well done Cid," the Emperor praised the scientist, who practically slumped down in relief. "You are in charge of making sure she receives whatever training is necessary. I want progress reports every two weeks and if things have progressed to my satisfaction within a year, you will have whatever you need to continue with this research."

Cid let loose a stream of '_thank you_'s and '_I will_'s as he backed out from the throne room with Celes at his side, bowing as much as he could. Only once they were back in their own personal rooms did Cid pick Celes up before spinning them both in a circle, his delighted laughter mixing with her gleeful squeals. She felt that Cid was somehow different with her when they were alone. He smiled more in these times, genuine smiles that reached his eyes and were _for_ her, not _at _her. There was laughter when they played games, comfort when Celes felt sad or ill, words of encouragement and praise that made her feel special. Special because she was someone he wanted to be around, instead of being thought special merely due to her unique creation and potential.

For this, she would always be grateful.


End file.
